


The Numbered Men #1: Anansie Vaughn

by theineffablehusbands666



Series: The Numbered Men [1]
Category: The Numbered Men
Genre: Denial, Human Supercomputer, Imprisonment, Jack the Ripper Murders, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Wrongful Imprisonment, genius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theineffablehusbands666/pseuds/theineffablehusbands666
Summary: This is an original story series I created myself. Inspired by the Jack the Ripper Murders, Inception, Divergent and Hunger Games. The United Kingdom and United States government have created a program, after discovering a young woman called Anansie Vaughn, a 17 year old, with an IQ of 255. This program allows the respective governments to remove those from schools with genius levels of intellectual and logical cognitive thought processes. Anansie is now 37 years old. Her new name is 23031960. What will happen next?
Relationships: Anansie Vaughn/Corrie Salm
Series: The Numbered Men [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201859





	The Numbered Men #1: Anansie Vaughn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [m0n0chrome_ghoul_cos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0n0chrome_ghoul_cos/gifts).



Hello. My name is 23031960. This is not my real name. I had another name, in another life, in another reality. The only reality that matters now is this one. Here, and now. I spend all day doing absolutely nothing except looking at files. Reading them. Deciphering them. Absorbing their contents like a sponge dropped into water. According to the government, I don't exist. I am nothing, nobody, nowhere. Of course, I must be something, otherwise, how could I exist? There is no one but me where I work. No one but me, my computer, and my files. I wasn't always alone here though. When I first arrived, a whole host of people examined me. Doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, government officials, but they all left in the end. Everyone does. I am the only constant in my room. I don't remember the last time I saw a human. I only remember what a man looks like, because there are men in my files. Tall, short, dark, fair, old, young. There are women too. I suppose I am a woman, though I can't remember what my face looks like. I haven't looked in the mirror in the longest time. I know my hands are fair, but my palms are always covered in ink. I know my hair is black, and ruler straight, but I cut it off a lot, with the scissors from my basin. That way it doesn't fall in my face when I work on the files. You must think I come back to the files a lot, but that is all there is. Files. All in cream cardboard folders. No paperclip though. There should always be a paperclip. It looks nicer with a paperclip. I suppose it would be to stop me getting out, but why would I? I haven't finished the files yet. Maybe when I finish all the files, I can go. But where would I go. I haven't left this room for a long time. I don't remember my life before this so how would I go back to anything? I can't provide for myself. I don't know how. All my meals are slid under my door. I exercise of my own volition. That is what the treadmill is for. I have nothing to do other than read the files. So how will I go back to anything, if I can't cope without the files? How will I go anywhere without the files? The answer to that is, I won't. I will stay here and work on my files.

I suppose you want to know what is in the files. Well, there are many things in the files. People, names, places. Crimes. Deaths. Injuries. Kidnappings. Suicides. As I said, many things. The number of files I work on can get up to ten at a time. It can be hard at times, things that need decoding, like file #20121968. The decoding on that was murder. Or file #15011947. That one was just plain hard. I was bored out of my mind for the last few days as my case file numbers started to go down. I got no new ones for a week. Now I have a new case file. This morning, after my shower, it appeared in my intray from the chute that they all come out of. Case file #7081888. A new name. A new face. A new file. Still no paperclip. There really should be a paperclip. The name is a little familiar. Martha Tabram. I swear I heard it before. I shouldn't do. None of the names should be familiar. I open the case file. A face, in black and white, eyes closed, stares, unseeing, through her eyelids. A face. Old. Victorian. I search her face for signs of illness. Stupid Victorian cameras. Why they couldn't invent something sensible escapes me. Anyway, no visible signs of illness, other than the fact she was dead, obviously. I look through the post-mortem report. 

Dr. T. R. Keeling: “I am a fully qualified doctor practising at Brick-lane, and was called to the deceased on the morning of the 7th of August at about half-past five.  
I found her dead.  
On examining the body externally I found no less than thirty-nine puncture wounds.  
From my examination of the body it seemed to be that of a woman about 38 years of age, and was well nourished.  
I have since made a post mortem examination of the body.  
The brain was healthy; the left lung was penetrated in five places, and the right lung in two places, but the lugs were otherwise perfectly healthy.  
The heart was rather fatty, and was penetrated in one place, but there was otherwise nothing in the heart to cause death, although there was some blood in the pericardium.  
The liver was healthy, but was penetrated in five places, the spleen was perfectly healthy, and was penetrated in two places; both the kidneys were perfectly healthy; the stomach was also perfectly healthy, but was penetrated in six places; the intestines were healthy, and so were all the other organs.  
The lower portion of the body was penetrated in one place, the wound being three inches in length and one in depth.  
From appearances, there was no reason to suspect that recent intimacy had taken place.  
I don't think that all the wounds were inflicted with the same instrument, because there was one wound on the breast bone which did not correspond with the other wounds on the body.  
The instrument with which the wounds were inflicted would most probably be an ordinary knife, but a knife would not cause such a wound as that on the breast bone. That wound I should think would have been inflicted with some form of a dagger.  
I am of the opinion that the wounds were inflicted during life, and from the direction which they took it is my opinion, that although some of them could have been self-inflicted, yet, there were others which could not have been so inflicted.  
The wounds generally would have been inflicted by a right-handed person.  
There was no sign whatever of any struggle having taken place; and there was a deal of blood between the legs, which were separated.  
Death was due to hemorrhage and loss of blood.”

Well, at least this doctor knew a little of what he was talking about. Thorough investigation is incredibly hard to find in these scenarios. There are some things here that don't quite add up, do not correlate, or I disagree with. For example, the doctor says many things that don't add up, like the fact her womb had been attacked, suggesting that it was a sexual MO, though there was no intimacy having taken place. This is most perplexing. This file annoys me. It is ridiculously easy to read, everything is here as it should be, except for the fact that we are lacking suspects, reliable witnesses, the actual name given to this particular murderer, even the amount of victims that this particular case has attached to it. I can't understand why I was given this file. For the first time ever I stand, and pace angrily around the room. I feel my thoughts swirling an angry cloud, like black ink dropped into moving water. They blur together, for the first time making my thoughts unclear. This scares me. I should be unattached, clinical, unaffected. But now emotions flood me, spiralling out of control. I sit on the floor to calm myself. I try a technique that I have known ever since I started here. I sit, with my eyes closed, and watch my memories, emotions and thoughts, flood past my conscience. Every so often, I allow my conscience to reach out and take a memory from the flow, to watch it through, and then place it back. Now though, my mind is moving so quickly, I cannot stop it. They move past, unbidden, unaware. I can't stop them as they bounce around inside my brain. I am confused though, as they all recite the same sound. A name. ‘Anansie’. I search up the name on my computer. No results. My web browser always comes up with something, even completely unrelated. This is not right. There should be something here. I try typing in ‘music’. I get news reports, podcasts, YouTube. Everything is as normal. I try the name again. Nothing. I try a different spelling. Nothing. No results of any spelling of Anansie is found. 

I breathe. Slowly. I calm myself down, and I take another look at the file. I start to methodically pick apart the post mortem, considering not just the meaning, but the phrasing. I am back on solid ground. I start to get back into the routine of this method, age old, and like clockwork. The routine: see a flaw, dissect, analyse, criticise, change, update, justify. It was soothing to get back into the safe bubble of my files. I was happy with my files. But the same name kept coming back, scratching at the inside of my skull. Anansie. Why? I was momentarily distracted from my deep thoughts by the familiar scrape of the tray, as it was pushed under my door, and the clank of the flap as it swung shut after me. I picked up the tray and walked to my desk, placing the file of Martha Tabram next to my plate. I can never tell what food they give me. It is always grey, mushy and entirely tasteless, except occasionally, seemingly regularly, when the food tastes off, like a harsh tang, like chemicals. I pick up my spoon and start to eat. Yes, there it is. The tang. I don't know why, but that tang always makes me apprehensive, as though it might bite me at any moment. I tell myself off sharply for this. Food can’t bite. You are the one that bites the food. I type, distressed, random letters on the keyboard. Only they aren't random. They spell ‘no freedom’. I shriek, standing up so quickly my chair topples backwards with a crash. I walk into the shower, and turn on the water, still in the see through robe I always wear. Well, not always. I wear a sports bra and leggings for my treadmill. I chuck the soaking robe out the shower, still shivering. I turn up the temperature on the water, desperate for it to stop. I look down, and see red welts forming on my skin. It itches, and I realise that I have turned the water on too hot. I berate myself for my utter stupidity. Why did I not pay attention to the temperature. I turn the shower down. I then step out, and dry myself off. I don’t need clothes. The room is warm enough without, and besides, my robe is wet. I hang it to dry and walk back over to the desk. Then, a thought, unbidden, surfaces to the forefront of my mind. Bin the food. Eat the next meal, and They will be none the wiser. I feel confused. Who are They anyway? I should eat. I need energy. I take a step forward towards my tray, but something stops me. I pick my tray up, and place the contents into the incinerator in the corner of my room. I then slide the tray back out through the flap and go back to work. At night, I can’t sleep. I am full of thoughts. I question many things. Reality. Where I am. Who sends the files. Who the hell is Anansie? I get out of bed, walk over to the computer and begin to type. I find the firewall blocking the name search quite easily. Whoever designed this computer is quite evidently an imbecile. I then start looking through the base code, looking for flaws, cracks, ways through. I feel frantic, as the code was obviously by someone a lot smarter than the software designer for this computer. I then realise, why am I searching with no method? I have a perfected method of finding flaws. I then take large pieces of the code and start the routine I have perfected with my files: see a flaw, dissect, analyse, criticise, change, update, justify, repeat. I don’t know how much time has passed, but then again, i never do. The only time I look up, is to see another meal tray sliding through the door. I pick it up, sniff it, and gingerly taste it. Bland as reading the American Constitution. I eat it as quickly as I can manage, shove the tray through the flap, and go back to the computer. I then go back to the web browser. I type in the name. Anansie. 2 ½ million results arrive. I search through several pages of a rock band called Skunk Anansie, and some children’s stories before realising, if I’m looking for anything significant, check the news. I practically bounce on my chair in anticipation. I click on the news tab. Nothing. Absolutely nada. Nil. Ex. Zero. Naught. I sigh and continue trawling through the web pages. I look up just in time to see another file shoot into my intray. Somehow, though they make me feel safe, it fills me with rage. And right on the top of the file, is a bright, red, shiny paperclip. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I must have passed out at some point. I couldn’t tell how long I was out for. But what scared me the most, was the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong about the room. I sat up, and looked around. Then I realised. The room was tidy. I had hurled papers across the floor when I saw the paperclip. But my desk was tidy, my robe was on me… I was wearing my robe. Someone had touched me while I was unconscious. I felt violated, dirty. Who knows what they could have done to me? My breath came fast and shallow. I felt myself panicking. What had happened to me? My brain went into the kind of clinical calm that meant I was about to have a heart attack, a stroke, or both. I don’t remember the last time I had contact with a human being. I have no concept of time in this place. I got up, took two steps, collapsed onto the floor and screamed. I don’t remember stopping screaming, but I assume that it was around the time my voice ran out, with only hoarse, scraping sounds coming from my vocal chords. I couldn’t draw breath. My hoarse shrieks dissolved into silent sobs, soaking my front. A wave of nausea hit me like a tsunami against a sea wall. I knelt on the floor as I purged my last meal from my system. I then stood up, swaying slightly on my feet, and started to clean the mess off the floor. I then sat shakily back down at my desk and saw the file, bathing in the pool of light from my desk lamp. The paperclip sat on the corner of the folder, daring me to pick the folder up. I opened the file. Case file #31081888. Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols. Again, I skimmed through the file, noting the post mortem, the victim notes, and the lack of suspects. Again, the name seemed familiar. I removed the red paperclip from the file, and examined it. I wondered why they would give me the paperclip now. It scared me far more than it should. It was a paperclip. But, unbidden, a little voice rose in the back of my mind. They are manipulative. You must escape. You will die here. Don’t eat the food. Don’t wear the clothes. Don’t use the shower. Don’t breathe the air. They will keep you here. They want your brains. You will die here. My head span. I was terrified. I couldn’t breathe. The little voice must be right! They are keeping me prisoner. But how to get out? I started to develop a plan in the back of my mind… 

To be continued.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I enjoy your comments, it keeps me going.


End file.
